A Phone Call
by DashOfPeppers
Summary: If there had been a moment of brevity, Connor might have stopped. But he didn't. Based off of the reversed roles au, wherein Connor is the human and Hank is the android. Here, they both fail. Richard is left to watch.


**I can explain.**

 **I've recently gotten into Detroit: Become Human and have done little else but obsess over it. It's tearing me up inside. So, naturally, the first product of anything I create for it is enormous angst. Sarcastic applause to me, I suppose. I am ever so original.**

 **Anyways, this is based** on **the reverse role** au **for Detroit: Become Human. Therefore, Connor is the one who is the depressed human, and Hank is the proper functioning android. Both of them fail at their jobs. Ah, and RK900 is there as well. His name is Richard, and he's Connor's younger brother.**

 **Ah, I think that's all the information I need now, yes? Onto the pain**.

* * *

The phone was in his hand.

So unfamiliar, the weight of it. He had held it in his palm for many years, the sweat stretching like paper film over its screen as he listened to the constant nattering of the forensic office, the DPD assistant at the front desk– Tammy, read her name, in bold letters on a golden metal sheen, batting the android assistants away as she struggled for the paperwork that spilled out of her arms–and Jeffery, all tired in their own way, voices dry and cracked, so much unlike the ever-constant pattering of Detroit's rain. The screen was cracked now, shattered at the edges like broken glass, and a long line that stretched across the middle, distorting the screen just enough to make his eyes stream.

RICHARD, was the word now that gleamed starkly out to him, like the gasping chasm of Hell, a trapdoor gaping wide open to expose a wild stream of light. It hurt his eyes, staring at the default white font, the pixels at the edges shifting and dancing the more he stared unblinkingly into it. It looked like milk spilled on black paper, the letters sinking into the sodden parchment as it turned a darker and darker grey until eventually, it became darker than the black itself. He swallowed his throat (the skin stretched and stuck together, and for a brief moment, he couldn't breathe) and pressed Call.

The first ring came.

It was almost as agonizing as knocking on Richard's pristine door, the wood rattling against his knuckles and then echoing on as the wait began, in the cold rain as the fall evening reminded him constantly of its rebellious decision to turn to winter before its time was due.

Richard had never opened the door.

The second ring came. Connor thumbed the surface of his table. Even though he was inside, the chill against the base of his spine was almost painful, and the sick twist of warmth in his stomach was not a welcome assistance. By the third ring, his thumb was brushing against the END button, and he released a shuddering breath.

"Hello?"

Ah. Shit. Connor opened his mouth, and nothing came out. All he could hear was the roar of his air conditioner. He forgot it could be so loud.

"… Connor? Is that you?"

He forgot how to talk. He wet his lips. Once. Twice. His tongue was so dry. He croaked when he hadn't meant it, but it sounded like a "Hey," and it was at least a start.

"Uh… hey. What's up?"

Richard's voice was distorted by the miles of distance, the barest of crackling against the transmission. Like sand against rocks, scrapped over skin. He rubbed at his forearm.

"Uh," Connor coughed. "Nothing… Nothing much. I, uh, just wanted… to check up on you and… yeah. Y'know. Just chat. I, uh. Yeah. Haven't talked to you in a while and all that."

Connor's mouth moved on its own. He didn't even know what he was saying. He was standing yards away, in the hallway, listening to the conversation play out. A person outside of the scene, eavesdropping. He wondered if he looked back, he'd see himself standing in the dark.

There was a long pause, and in that pause, Connor knew everything. He sensed Richard squinting down at his phone, bridge wrinkled and nostrils flared as he made a face of mild disgust. " Now ?" he asked, with a hint of indignation.

Connor's fingernails rubbed against his palm achingly. Everywhere hurt. "Y-yeah. I don't know. I didn't know when to call."

"Well," Richard's voice was strained, and he heard the man draw in a long breath. Words through the teeth, like talking to a child constantly causing trouble. "You never return my calls when I do have time, man. I've got a meeting in five."

"O-oh."

Connor leaned against the chair, the bones of it creaking as he sagged his weight over it. He fucked up again.

"W-well, in that case, sorry. I didn't mean…"

Another long pause, as Connor lost his mouth along with his head and forgot what else to say. He opened and closed it, a small pop of his lips, but kept any noise from coming out. Don't fuck up again.

"Uh." It was Richard this time, the single syllable word managing to separate into two the longer he drew it out, and he could picture the man, dressed sharply in a suit and tie, gaze about awkwardly into the hallway as if the wallpaper would provide an escape. "Look, Connor… I appreciate you calling and all, but… I mean, I have maybe two minutes tops."

Two minutes. He didn't know why it felt so important, but the time burned in his stomach, an ache with no end. He blinked, straining to find his head again, but he didn't need to. It came with the ache, burning stronger than his chest. "That's fine," he breathed. "Two minutes are fine."

"Uh… okay?"

He wet his lips again. His tongue stuck to the skin. "How's Brooke?"

Richard made a noise, much akin to a suitable What the fuck? , but didn't elaborate. "Uh, she's fine. She's… uh, in L.A. right now, talking to some editors about her book deal. Been there for a week now."

Brooke wrote? For how long? Connor squeezed his eyes shut (the room was spinning), and rubbed his hands over his face (they were shaking) as he tried to grasp at the strings of conversations dangling at the ceiling, when Richard gloated over his fiancee and Connor shoved steak into his mouth, willing the sounds of chewing to drown out the burning words. He didn't even recall the wedding reception. Was he there for that? The ice at his back twisted into claws scraping at his skin, and he squished his eyes in with his palms, waiting for the black dots to start anew in his vision.

He must not have said anything in reply, because Richard said tentatively, "How's Jenna?"

Jenna? Who was Jenna? He didn't even remember his face until his mouth answered for him: "It didn't work out between us."

Short hair. Brunette. A strange smile that only quirked at one side of her face, leaving her looking lopsided and ill-kept. He was wild about her. She always wore this bright yellow jacket that fell just below her thighs; it bled through the mirage of greys and blacks in Detroit. Why didn't he remember her?

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah."

At the sound of his own voice, he remembered, peering through a mirror of his own tenor, Jenna raging on the other end of the phone. He hadn't gone to something with her. Something important. He was too busy at work, asleep at his desk, smoke still clinging to his clothes like a vice. She could smell it on him as he met her, three hours too late, hair disheveled and flowers wilted and crumbled, just like his apology. She wrinkled her nose, eyes still swollen and watery. His cheek still stung when she left him in the rain. He fucked up again.

He swallowed (and his throat still stuck together).

"How long have you two been married again?"

An audible huff came this time, laced with irritation. "Three years, Connor."

"Oh."

"You missed both of our birthdays for the past two years."

"… Oh."

It hurt to breathe again. Wisely, he decided to say nothing else. The clock ticked on, and the chill never left. On the other end of the line, he could hear distant mutters, drowned out by the static and his air conditioner.

Richard's voice fell into a soft whisper. "Look, I gotta go, Connor."

Connor's hands wouldn't stop shaking. He swallowed (fuck, stop closing), and bit his tongue. The air conditioner roared so loudly that he couldn't hear his own breath, and it occurred to him that he had never turned it on that evening. "Y-yeah. Go ahead. Tell Brooke I said, 'Hi,' and all that."

"…Yeah, sure."

Don't fuck up again.

Fuck, everything hurt.

"And Richard?"

Silence. Connor didn't even know if he was still on the line. Nevertheless, he twisted his fingers in his palm, feeling the nails dig into the soft flesh.

"I never actually hated you."

Another long pause of silence. Connor waited, his eyes darting idly about the kitchen until the constant, ever-present din crooned in his ears.

Richard had hung up.

He still felt like he was standing at the door, rain pelting at his jacket, Detroit autumn always reminding him that winter came whether he wanted it to or not.

Connor released a shaky breath and brushed his hands against a metal barrel.

—–

His company had the budget and reputation to ensure all of the highest quality of items, and the chairs were no different. As Richard settled into the leather seat, it sank comfortably against his weight, a perfect firmness at his spine as he rolled himself up towards the table. His coworkers seated themselves beside him, unbuttoning their expensive suits to keep them from wrinkling, and smoothing out their ties against their chests. Richard ran a contemplative hand through his hair, gnawing at his cheek as his eyes danced nonchalantly across the table, Connor's voice still an echo in his ears.

Two years.

He hadn't called in two years.

He knew this because Brooke had mentioned it just two weeks ago, lips curving into their own scowl as she remarked upon the complete audacity of her brother-in-law, who hardly knew her name. "I don't know how someone could just…" she had tossed her hand about as if the word was there in front of her, in reach for her to grab it, "abandon the rest of their family like that. I know he hasn't called your mom in years either." And Richard had contemplated that, licking excess spaghetti sauce off of their ladle and snorting when Brooke had flicked him in the nose. Richard interlaced his fingers together now, pads twitching against the webbing.

"That's fine. Two minutes is fine."

It was the strain of it all that had kept Richard on the line. The absolute desperation. Richard toyed with a pen in his hands. Maybe his elder brother finally got it. Maybe he finally was tired of being alone.

Richard jumped at the squeak of the door as Simmons swung it open, calling their attention with a good-natured joke and inducing forced laughter from the rest of them, as he slapped the papers down on the table with an authoritative thump. So the meeting began.

He swallowed and listened, as he had always done. The company budget, barked the man before them, tossing papers at them to oggle (if not totally preoccupy themselves with) as he summarized their contents, leaning his weight over the table to eye them all challengingly. It was a game with Simmons, the first to propose a possible solution, and on they would tumble, down the path of legal barriers and corporate propositions that lead to even more capital, each trying to better the other with their own knowledge. A challenge that they all loved, else they wouldn't all be sitting there in that room, as high of positions as they had, grinning fiercely at each other as though they were squatting in a grass-patched field with a ball at their feet. They waited for the first, and the first did indeed speak, a thin, strong-nosed fellow by the name of Davidson, and he was often first at everything, simply due to his own impatience to, in his words, "get the ball rolling." Richard watched, cheek pressed against his open palm, a faint grin touching his face as spittle flew from both their lips.

And then five minutes passed in the meeting, and the words came as clearly as though they were next to him, spoken in his ear by the man sitting just next to him, smelling faintly of coffee and washed with cheap store cologne.

"I never actually hated you."

His grin fell as quickly as the spiders came.

The voices stopped, the murmurs ceased, and all Richard could hear was the ticking of the clock, as though it was the only thing in the room, nestled just above him and clicking its innocent ticks. His throat closed, as though something had slid its fingers through his skin to squeeze directly onto his windpipe. His free hand, still resting on the table, curled ever so slightly so that his nails dug into the metal, and he felt them press into his skin, sinking lower and lower until there was only bone. Spiders. Spiders at his skin. The world was screaming suddenly, the clicking of the clock all muddled together with the whispers around him, and he was standing before he even heard his chair roll and then topple over, the wheels spinning maddingly around.

"Richard?"

He blinked, and everyone in the room was staring at him, mouths agape and brows folded over their noses. The screaming didn't stop, but it faded for long enough for him to hear the insistent tick of the clock and the air conditioner, so loud in the crowded room.

"I have to go," was all he could croak before he felt the keys in his pocket and ran.

—-

Too much traffic. Too many cars. Not fast enough. His thumb pressed against the screen of his phone so hard that it ached.

"Hi, it's Connor. I'm not at the phone right now, so–"

Richard swore, but he choked somewhere in the middle of it that left him swallowing his tongue. He kept his foot on the gas pedal, swerving between cars. He was certain he heard a siren behind him. He didn't look to check. All he could hear was the croak of the voice, the last sentence before he had hit the button and shuffled so callously into the conference room.

"I never actually hated you."

He ended the call, and then pressed CONNOR again.

" Hi, it's Connor–"

There was too much traffic.

—–

He was going fifty in a twenty-five. The sirens didn't follow him down the road, and for that, he was grateful. Still, the white signs that sped past him glowed accusingly at him, the parked cars the only witnesses of his minor misdemeanor.

The same voice, as loud as ever, as if it was right next to his ear, came again. "Sir, I'm going to have to see your driver's license for this."

Now he was going sixty.

—–

For his salary, his house didn't look that bad. The shutters were always pulled down, the grass and bushes were always unkempt, and Connor had always parked his car crooked in the driveway–never did he ever use his garage for the thing that it was built for–but, compared to the rest of the houses on the block, it looked quite pleasant. At least the paint wasn't peeling off.

Before Richard even touched the brakes, he saw another car, pulled to the side of the house, the bright white display of TAXI shining on its side. He gasped in relief at the sight of it, lips curling into this incredibly stupid smile–at least, he assumed it looked stupid, if he bothered to look in the mirror–because it meant that there was another person in the house, and that was fine. His hands were quivering with relief against the steering wheel, and he almost had trouble pulling over to the side, drifting on the brakes as he parked just behind the taxi. He pawed at the handle of his car, almost laughing to himself for fumbling with the door. He couldn't wait to get inside and crush his dumbass brother.

The cold air struck Richard like a wave, chilled fingers immediately pulling themselves into the creases of his clothes and stealing away his warmth. He ground his teeth and swung the door shut, making a determined strut around his car and into the driveway. His eyebrows twitched when he saw a figure in the light, standing just beyond the porch, white hair stark in the moonlight and clothes glowing in the dark. His twitching eyebrow grew into a frown, and as he stepped closer, he noticed that the figure was standing away from the door, back facing it and head bowed over his shoulders, beard brushing against his finely-fitted suit. The LED was flashing red beneath his silver hair.

Richard stumbled over his feet, and his mouth felt dry.

"Who are you?"

The android twitched its head as if to pull itself from a dream, to blink blearily at him. It was designed to look old, synthetic wrinkles moving with every twitch of its eyes. It straightened ever so slightly, and in a soft tone, said, "My name is Hank."

Richard couldn't feel his tongue. The cold was stronger, stealing away the breath in his throat.

"Where's Connor?"

The android reacted strangely, brow folding over its eyes and its LED blinking erratically, still that same bright red. "I'm sorry, Anderson."

Richard couldn't see around him. All he saw was the android and the door. Everything else was dark and cold and not there. He grabbed the android's shoulders, fingers like iron against its shoulders.

" Where is Connor?"

It said nothing.

Things were moving too slowly, then. He ran, but everything was too slow. Some force was pulling him back, hands grabbing him at his belt and pulling him down to the ground, clawing at his legs and keeping him rooted to the concrete. He stumbled over the steps at the porch, hands clumsily clawing at the door handle until he miraculously twisted it, the metal biting like fire against his skin. He was sure he called for Connor. He was sure of it. But he couldn't hear it over the roar in his ears, like jet engines screaming beside him. He threw himself against the wall, as if his legs were drunk or in water, pulling himself along it like a rope on a mountain. He crossed the corner, to the kitchen, croaking for Connor's name.

And there he was. The first time he had seen him in two years, in his worn out DPD sweater and slacks, barefooted and with a five-o'clock shadow. Lying unmovingly on the floor, with… with…

Red…

O-on his… cabinets…

On the table…

Around his…

His…

The hands finally got him then, and pulled him to the ground by his waist, keeping him there as he stared, spiders having finally stung him, hammer finally crushing his head.

"I never actually hated you," he had said. And Richard hung up.

The spiders were inside his head, squirming in his ears, and he couldn't feel anything else but the weight of spikes pulling him to the ground, something wet pooling down his nose.

He fell to the ground and didn't get back up. And he formed a little puddle of his own.


End file.
